Curb My Enthusiasm? No problem there.

I HAVE tried.  Really.   Year after year.   On and on.

I recognize the importance of daily laughter in our lives.   It's healthy, emotionally and physically.   As it turns out, Reader's Digest has been right all along: laughter IS the best medicine.  And so, I have tried.  Episode after insipid episode.

But every time I do I come to the conclusion that, "Curb Your Enthusiasm," that hit show by genius Larry David, just plain sucks.   It sucks bad.  Why?  It somehow refuses to make me laugh.    I know people say how funny they think it is.  I know that.  I just cannot see it.   In fact I think it is  awful.

So, why do I feel this way?    I've been giving it some thought and the simple answer is, is that it's just not funny.   But no, that's not enough.   Others find it funny.  I know Larry David has created some of the funniest and most intelligent humor I've ever seen.    So why my revulsion to this show?  

That's it!  Revulsion.   It's not just that it's not funny.   It's revolting.

First of all, HE is revolting, Larry David, himself, is so brutal to look at and to listen to.  (By the way, are there two more hideous people to look at on television than Richard Lewis and Larry David?  My God, when they are in a seen together I have to turn away).   Among David's character's other charms is that he is, as is just about everyone else on the show (it seems to be the raison d'etre of the shows' humor)  overwhelmingly narcissistic.  They are fools but not funny ones.

To make matters irredeemably worse all  the character are financially successful.  All of them.  Fancy, first-class restaurants, expensive cars, mansions, etc,  etc.   I'm supposed to feel something for these pampered clowns?  What is there to draw me in?   Why should I care?   His biggest problem is that his wife won't let him wear THAT jacket to the next star-studded party?    It's all revolting.   David has forgotten, or never knew, the first law of comedy, that once must identify with the characters in order to sustain the humor.

Thus every aspect of the show is vile on one level or another which is appropriate considering that it takes place in the most vile place on earth.

Just a cursory look at why we all loved Seinfeld,  will reveal a multitude of elements that create a successful (funny) comedy.   On the whole we may say that it was the "exact opposite" (ironic, no?) of everything Curb is.  It's characters struggle to get through life.  It takes place in the anti-L.A., of course, which gives the show much of it's "bite," and energy.   New York City is a place where people come to succeed but must struggle first.  How many multitude of films and television shows and plays have this as their bases?   Countless.   (Let us also note that the least effective, (that is, funny) episodes of Seinfeld are the two that take place in Los Angeles, when Kramer decides to move there.)    

The characters that comprise the Seinfeld cast although not physically appealing (with the exception of Elaine, of course)  are all interesting LOOKING, like the characters in Commedia del'Arte, of which the show is a direct descendant and to which direct lineage is clear: Kramer is the Harlequin, his hair and clothes serve as  his mask and identify him (as Ed Norton's vest and hat identified him 40 years earlier) as does his proclivity for trouble-making and foolery.   Elaine, their Columbine, at once free with her lusts and emotions, is always honest, sometimes brutally, but we know she owns a heart of gold and a genuine need to be loved.  And we love her.   George is the pathetic Pierrot, his efforts doomed to failure, and who will never be loved, and we love him.  Jerry, Il Dottore, thinks he is in control and separate from of his little experiment but in fact, is part of it.  And there is Newman, who is a kind of  Scaramouche, a hero in his own mind, waxing on in  absurd poetry about Romance, or with great bravura, ordering another round of Strawberry yogurt for his co-workers,  but in the end his lot is that of the buffoon.

Where are any of these types, or any types on Curb?   They are no where to be found.   Seinfeld, is the very and pointedly direct opposite of Curb, for in Curb, we have no link to any comedic or theatrical tradition, nor any ability or desire to like or ability to identify with these awful people.    Yes, there are times that David's humor may appear to be of a vaudevillian nature, but again, because the characters are so empty, the humor is doomed to fall flat, inducing, perhaps, a minimal smile, but never a prolonged LAUGH.   In Curb we have primarily some odd situations, rather exaggerated, and out of place emotions, along with childish accusations and banter, none of which ring true of life, and through which these dull characters must navigate, and they do this be behaving as retarded -- severely retarded, or utterly stupid and immature people, at best.

The characters of Seinfeld were faced with problems issues to which we all can relate, often leaving us with a sense that what just happened on the show just happened to us.    We ARE the cast of Seinfeld.   "Curb," cannot achieve this magic - and it is magic.

Critically and crucially, Curb is not filmed in front of an audience, or on a set.  Without that, there is far less the sense of "theater" about it.   Instead, we see that insipid and overused device of the hand held camera which, among the pretentious, is supposed to lend an air of "reality," as if the cameraman is filming a documentary about people that are real.   Real?   Real crap.   Whether we are aware of it or not the setting affects us.   We know a stage, that is, something artificial, and therefore, theatrical, from someone's house, and the house is distracting.   The real lamps, carpets, sinks, paintings, all of it.   Comedy, in particular, needs the stage.  How can we suspend our dis-belief without it?   And that suspension is far more crucial for the success playing out of comedy that from straight drama, for the characters, although as real as possible, must be separate from our reality.   Only the finest, greatest and most skilled comedians succeed on film, some even excel, when they can create that separation.   And the closer one gets to the "stock" character, those of the Commedia del Arte, the more successful the comedy can be.  

So, Curb fails on so many levels.

Yet others, I am told, find the show funny.   I wonder.  I have not seen that phenomenon to this point.  I have watched the show many times in the company of "fans," and honestly, the most I've heard has been an occasional light chuckle.  Yet they claim they found the show, "extremely funny"!   Do they really?  Or do they laugh because they think they should?   Because it is Larry David?   Because everyone else says it is so funny?  A case of the Emperor's new clothes?   The humor is cheap, but even cheap humor in this desert of banality we call popular culture, may seem hilariously funny.    I really do wonder.

Truthfully, I wish I did find Curb funny.  I want and need to laugh.  I'm not happy about it.

I just don't.   Curb sucks.

MAN OF MUSIC

I don't know anyone like me.   I wish I did, but I don't.  Some come close but fall short of being like me in one particular way.  Actually, it is I who fall short of them in most normal human abilities, but in one particularly aspect I seem to have something that they do not.   I have had it since childhood, since before I could read or write, before, I think, I could even speak words.

All my life I have had a very special relationship with music.

Music has always been extremely special to me.   But more than that, it has had a kind of other worldly sacredness to it.  It has had a mystical quality about it that is difficult to explain.   But I have it, without a doubt, and I have yet to meet anyone who speaks the same about music.   Certainly many are passionate, but it is not simply passion.  It is a connectedness, for want of a better word, a identification and knowledge, I suppose.  Let me try to explain.

Since earliest childhood I have been attracted to, and fascinated by certain kinds of music, but more, much more than that.   The word, "fascination," comes close to defining it, but not really.   I would say that at certain times music and I were one.  It is as if I had composed the piece.   There an element of familiarity with what at the time was completely unknown music, that felt almost as if it were mine.  Like the memory, I suppose that one has of a past life experience.  Almost.   Almost because I could feel the next note or group of notes and when they came, I felt the great, "of course,"  as upon additional hearings the music revealed more and more to me, became more and more part of who I am, and the more I heard the more I wanted to hear.   Great music, in particular the classic works of the great composers were most powerful in this.   But not alone.   Often popular songs could do this, or even accompaniment music to cartoons or films, whether they were great works or not.   Sometimes, a fragment of a phrase of music could become so special (with no connection whatsoever to the film or cartoon it accompanied) that it would lodge itself in my brain.   Not that I would hear it over and over.  No.   But it was there.   It had become part of my anatomy.  As much as a new tooth or a hair.

I did not understand other children or adults who did not have the same reverence for music.  Those of my parents generation, for example, loved their "Big Band" music.   So did I.   But there were certain pieces that were very very special, not just a nice tuneful arrangement of a song.   I remember hearing Harry James', "Sleepy Lagoon."  I thought it was extraordinary.  I still do. It's almost a little tone poem of the classical genre.   Wonderful arrangement, tune, and execution.   But no one among my parents or their friends, or relatives, had the reaction that I had, which was to sit quietly and listen to  it, to study it, to meditate upon it.

Now that I think of it, I must have spent a lot of time in deep meditation, for what is it to meditate but to focus one's mind so completely that one reaches another plane;  to meditate is to focus on something to allow your mind to relax and expand, receive, explore.  I think that's what I was unknowingly doing.  Through and around music.   Very weird.

As I got older the phenomenon continued along with me.   It was always there.   And as I began to really study and understand the great works of composers like Bach and Mozart  I felt all the more keenly and with great meaning.   Brahms could cast a spell over me, as could just about any other composer.

But the one composer whose works were especially profound to my inner spirit was that of Chopin.  Again, from a young age there was Chopin in my life -- he had a spooky familiarity, again, as if I were there when he composed the music, or that I was him.    His music spoke, no, shouted to me.  Once heard it could never be forgotten, indeed, my first reaction was to hear it again.   This piano music you understand, as Chopin wrote little else.    Chopin.   Chopin.   Chopin.  Chopin.   His music transported me to another time and place but not to a specific one, though at times I would associate whatever clues there were on the page of printed sheet music, such as the place of composition, (Paris, 1844) could draw me to that place and time --completely imaginary and probably not accurately, but nonetheless quite real-- to me.

As I got older I discovered another power music had over me.  It could, under the right circumstances cause me to weep.  Not because it accompanied some sad, or moving scene, or because the text was so powerfully moving, but simply the absolute sounds themselves, reached into me, and once at home, they burst into emotional turmoil in the form of tears.   This was something completely out of my control.   I could no sooner not cry than not breathe. Certain works did it all the time and every time.   Others only on occasion.

Still, so many years later, I am subject to sudden bursts of weeping though it seems to happen far less frequently.  But the bond is still there.   I cannot  imagine a life any differently.   What would it have been like without an intimate knowledge and love of great music?   Seems like a kind of hell to me.   Unimaginable.  Yet, I know that most humans experience none of this and lead full and happy lives.   Much happier, in fact, than mine.  

For it is this love of music that has led me down a path that was wrong for me.   And my life is all twisted up and confused because of it.   And I am past the age of starting over.   Well past.   So I am alone, alone with my music.   It is not fulfilling.   It is a tragedy.  

It has been both a gift and a curse.

IT HAPPENED IN BROOLYN. No, really.

Viewed this again recently for the ump-teenth time, and found it more entertaining than ever.  I sat with a silly grin on my face through the most of the whole picture, particularly every time Durante said anything, and sang anything.   I delighted in the mixture of classical music with the popular in this silly story.  Damn, the movie made me feel good.   I was truly entertained.

Ah, now there's an interesting word, isn't it?   "Entertainment."   To me, it is filled with all the magic of what was once called "show business."   Great singers, dancers, actors, comics, doing what they did best, for an audience who wanted to be entertained.  Those days seem to be long gone, don't they.   Something happened in the 1960's.   All of a sudden a play, a film, most any endeavor before an audience had to be "relevant."  Even, God help us, TV shows!   Problem was that in gaining relevance we lost "funny."   We lost timing, pace and writing."   We lost entertainment.  The important thing was to be "impressed," impressed with the writing, the acting, or the "message," or all three and almost always, the "message."   Now, we are so bombarded by the relevance and realism, in films, theater, and TV today that "mere" entertainment has been lost, a forgotten craft, almost to be held in contempt.    I remember hearing the very talented Bebe Neuwirth speaking about a theater work (one cannot call it a "musical") she was to be in in NYC.   During the creative process before opening she had this revelation that what she was singing was very much like a traditional "number," from a standard Broadway show.  In other words, it was a song.    Well, they decided, we can't have that.   "We didn't want to do the same old thing," she said.    I thought, "Oh, no.   Why do something that has been successful for what, hundreds of years?   First thing you know you will be communicating something and before you know it, people will be entertained.   Can't have that!"   

Sadly, the lessons of Preston Sturges' John L. Sullivan have to be learned over and over again, and so, with "It Happened In Brooklyn," I was reminded of what made entertainment entertaining. Great songs, funny little bits, charming scenes and characters, and most of all, nothing especially challenging or serious. Fun.

A wonderfully tuneful the soundtrack provides a diverse score of popular and classical numbers all, perfectly appropriate to the action and, in the case of Sinatra and Grayson's rendering of Mozart, "La Ci Darem La Mano," a delightful curiosity not to be missed.  Sinatra's delivery of the duet is one way to successfully portray the character: a non-threatening seduction, beginning innocently with, "Give me your hand," or, as the Beatles would say years later, "I wanna hold your hand," and it works very well. Sinatra's easy manner, lets the melodies flow out of him as though he were speaking them, and it is charming. Grayson's voice is grating at times, but her presence is so sweet and delectable that we forgive it.   The vocal highlight for Sinatra would become a big hit, and that is, "Time After Time," still a wonderful song. 

There is also a delightful setting of a Bach Invention for Grayson and her music students, and the setting is note-for-note true to the original and with taste and is, in itself, quite lovely. Grayson also has a chance to shine in the "Bell Aria," from Delibes, "Lakme." She impresses, though not overwhelmingly. For the part in this movie, it's perfect. And it's ENTERTAINING, dammit! 

The highlight musical number is Durante/Sinatra's, "The Song's Gotta Come From Da Heart!" -- a perfect vehicle for Durante's wild, vaudevillian antics, which remain awfully funny to this day.  What a pro! The likes we have none of today, for we have no entertainment today.   Or, precious little.    

Sinatra's Brooklyn Bridge, "love song," is another priceless moment, filmed on location ON the Brooklyn Bridge.    Peter Lawford is appropriately stuffy and does not interfere with the fun.

All in all it is not Sinatra's film, or Grayson's or Durante, who comes closest to "stealing" it. It is ours.  For it is we who find ourselves charmed  and fully satisfied of being simply entertained, and by the light airiness, the joy, of "the movies."

Bravo!

So Tired of New Age, Anti-Traditionalist Native American Worshipping Hippies.

"I do not believe in organized religion." 
"I am spiritual, not religious." 
"All organized religion is bad." 
"I believe in (fill in new-age Native American bullshit) that teaches love, and peace, and respect for the planet and animals, and tolerance, and love and hatred for straight, white, males."  
"Religions are the work of the devil." 


                                             ***

You've all heard it.  These words, or words very similar to them.   If you're like me, and interested in the issue of faith and truth, you're actually sick of hearing this kind of drivel.   It's everywhere.   Sick of it, because there is no greater hypocrisy than the hypocrisy of the new age hippie moron.   Why?

All they do, or most, is criticize and judge.  They criminalize the Judaic and Christian religions, without knowing anything about them.   But because they are convinced of their "englightened state," they feel compelled, even justified in judging the faiths of millions of humans.  Of course, say a negative word about the Olmecs ("hey, folks, they practiced human sacrifice!")  and you will be excoriated, exorcised, and excommunicated from their world, which, of course, is the world of "love," and "peace," and, "truth."

Now, you can't just say, "love."   You have to pronounce it differently.   It's hard to explain in words without demonstrating it, but basically, you have to exaggerate the LUUU-ve aspect, tilt your head to one side, and make your voice modulate in a sing-song manner.   Just think 1967 hippie on pot.   Luuu-uh-ve.

So, the new religion, the one that's acceptable, is "self-love," really.   You ARE God.  I AM God.  We are all God.    God is the Universe, the trees, and the ants.   We must learn to "co-exist" with them, as George Bush said, "I believe that human beings and fish can peacefully co-exist."   Who knew he was a new-age-hippie-freak?

And so, these freaks feel entitled to criticize anyone else's belief system, especially the Hebrew and Christian (probably because these are associated with their parents) but do not allow any kind of real understanding of these traditions nor any real scrutiny of the traditions they themselves hold.

Essentially, they are children.  Adult/children of hippies.  They think like children, speak like children, think and reason like children.   Their depth of understanding is that of a child, simplistic, superficial, and deeply vapid.   They cannot even seriously embrace the belief systems of the far east, (Buddhism, Shintoism) because they demand practice and sacrifice -- self-denial in one way or another,.   This is anathema to the child, nor should we ever ask a child to perform such.

I'm sick of it.

Will someone please do something about this?

Taboo of Our Times, Part One: The Acting Profession

Every spring, the buses at Port Authority arrive from all over the country with young men and women who have just graduated from programs in colleges and universities with degrees in Drama. Some who could afford it, arrive at the airports.  Some drive.   But they come.

They come seeking work in the theater.   More accurately, they seek acting careers.

Yet no one talks about the horrible injustice of it, or of the blight foisted upon the professional theater over the past 40 or so years.   For there are no jobs, no work, and especially, little or no theater.  But it's New York, and the expectations are and continue to be that this is where one goes to ply one's craft in the theatrical arts.   It is nonsense, and has been nonsense for many many years.  Is it discussed in Drama programs around the country?   Is anyone warned of the impossibility of a career?   Of the need for a alternative income generating skill?

But they ARE taught that they, like their teachers, can always teach.  Yes, teach and turn out more actors who can't find work but will teach others to act and not find work, and on it goes, on and on and on.   And no one says a word.

The origin of this myth is easy to understand.  In 1920, to pick a year during Broadway's "Golden Era," a staggering number of plays opened on Broadway.    We cannot conceive of such a number today.   40?  79?110?   No, 158 plays opened on Broadway in 1920.   One-hundred-fifty-eight.   Can you imagine how many actors this employed?  Now, not all of these plays had very long runs, but that is irrelevant because a new play was ready to take a failed one's place.   And so, actors and actresses merely had to be present at an agent's office to eventually land work.   And the work was steady, reliable.   It was a profession.

For many, there was the additional theater known as vaudeville.  While a more difficult life involving constant travel and hotels, and trains, etc. . . the work was steady.    And there were the so-called, "Road Companies," of Broadway shows.

There was lots of work.   At one time producers actually complained of a lack of "chorus girls"!

But, by 1950, the number of new shows opening on Broadway had fallen to 78.   In 1970 it was 46.   What would cause such a preciptitous fall?   Numerous phenomenon, including the advent of radio and most of all, film--first silent then talkies.  Theaters around the country could obtain a higher profit from showing films then from maintaining a theatrical staff.   Theaters that had served live plays and musicals were converted to films.   It's no mystery.

By 1990 there were 32 "plays" to open in Broadway houses.   I put plays in quotation marks because many of these shows would not qualify as Broadway shows in previous era's, such as the one-man shows of Jackie Mason, Micheal Feinstein, and Harrick Connick, Jr.

And so, the hundreds or thousands of young people, ironically more than ever, studying acting right at this moment, are completely unprepared for the reality of the profession, which, in any sense of the word, would no longer qualify as such.

But who will say this?   Where is the outrage?

Greenwich Girl Hamptons Newsletter! CouldYouJustDie???

Can you imagine. . . a whole summer of GG's utterly Faaab-u-lous insights, thoughts, and reportage, emerging, like the newborn Hercules, from both Greenwich and the oneandonlymostfabplaceonEarth (in the summer.  D'uh.   Please. . . )  THE HAMPTONS???      Well, can you?

Only GG can provide such joy, such rapture.

"Oh, tell us, Greenwich Girl!" the millions cry out!  
"Favor us with your wit, your stories, your recipes for the perfect Cosmo!"
We cry from the darkness. . . .

The U.S. and Israel hold the largest ever joint military exercise.
Chemtrails now on record poisoning our atmosphere.
TSA intentionally hiring psychopaths to grope you at airports.

And Greenwich Girl invites us to:

"Keep up with GG as she jet sets between Greenwich and the Hamptons this summer. . ." 

Okay, okay, "jet sets" is not really a verb.  "Jets" is a verb.   Yeah, those Greenwich Middle Schools never could get that straight.  Or, is she, as we have believed all along, a F****G moron?   A blond bimbo with nothing on her brain?   A symbol of everything that is wrong with America?  The reason we hate the pampered and privileged?   Well, yes, she is.

But Hey!   What does it matter when you're a rich, spoiled, blond slut?  Nothing.   Grammar?   D'uh. . . I mean, where's my nail polish?  

But not her fault.   Mom's favorite phrase: "How much?"  Oh, how her ears perk up at the sound of those words.

But GG reminds us to be kind, to be forgiving, to be magnanimous.   How?     Well, she. . . she. . . um. . .Oh! I don't know, but check out her glossy newsletter!   Oooooo!

And remember girls, if he's paying. . . keep those legs spread!  He's got MONEY!

The NBA Sucks. Really.

It is one day after LeBron James won the NBA title and. . . Oops!   I mean since the Miami Heat won the NBA title and it feels like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.   Not only my shoulders but the shoulders of the entire country, nay!  The entire world.   For has not this been the Decade of James?    Has not every human breath, endeavor, thought and deed been somehow related to Mr. James winning the first of several titles?   Or, "rings," as is more appropriate.  

The NBA sucks.   It sucks for so many reasons but I shall just concentrate on two in this essay.  (Right.) 

First, the focus on individual accomplishment, deed, and word, has gotten absurd.   Players do not win titles, TEAMS DO.   What is a team?   A team is a group of players who, under a coach, attempt to win games by best applying their skills thus scoring more points than their opponents.  Which USED to mean TEAM DEFENSE was a premium.  (More on that later).   The reason for this is plain to see.   The NBA has, as has virtually every other purveyor of popular cultural products "sold it's soul," to the commercial aspects of the business.   Money first.  Payola (Yes, I'm old).   The indivdual player means more to the team than winning does.  Certainly the salary and income of players matter more than winning, but, you may ask, isn't that always been so?  

NO!  



I will stand to say no, and no again.   


I believe that we have broached into an era of unprecedented greed, both on the part of players and owners, and anyone else with a piece of the action.   Any action.  Sports, films, television, music (the most egregious offender).   God, help me I will not spout the p.c. view that, well, it was always so.    IT WAS NOT.  There are a multitude of examples of this, but I will trust you to trust me.   It was not.  

And so, all of culture is dumbed down to the lowest common denominator, increasingly lowering standards of taste, quality and preference.  Hell on earth for a purist such as myself. 

But focusing on the NBA, we see that out of this desire for the individual to be the center of activity, of focus and care, the concepts of team, and team defense are lost.   They take up too much time and work.  I think of Patrick Ewing.  (the name alone brings  feelings of disgust and revulsion).   As a Knick's fan, I was swept up with joy when the Knicks won that lottery pick.  "We are getting the next Bill Russell." I thought.   Bill Russell?   Don't make me laugh.   What we got was a poorer version of Walt Bellamy.   I would have preferred Walt Bellamy to Ewing.   

The NBA ended with Ewing.  All you have to do is watch any game he played.  The ball went to Ewing and you could just go home right then and there, because you just saw all that was going to happen in the game.  "But, you will shout, Ewing HAD to take all those shots, who else was on his team that could shoot?"   After striking you with my fist, I would turn simply walk away, not dignifying that statement, wrong for so many reasons, and betraying and complete lack of understanding of the game of basketball and how it is won.    Mr. Ewing, (the name is even hard to type) for a big man, in a era of not many really big men, barely averaged double digit rebounds.  Are you kidding me?   I am convinced had he scored fewer points but got more rebounds the Knicks would have won several (yes, SE-VE-RAL) championships.  With whoever he played with. 

But he didn't.    He was the anti-Knick.  

Points meant more than winning and that's for damn sure.  Don't be fooled.  Don't be fooled.    Don't be fooled. 


And so, the NBA sucks.   No defense,  and the celebration of the individual.   


What used to be a beautiful sport has been reduced to the banal, the trivial, the bait of fools.  

As Time Goes By, More Thoughts On, "CASABLANCA"

Yes, yes, yes, I know, you know all about it, all there is to know and you're getting sick of it already.    Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not!  This film endures, and, like that ticking clock you cannot see in a stranger's home, it's always there, in the background, somewhere, even when you don't hear it, you do.  And it never leaves you.

So, it struck me, upon last viewing the film, that at the conclusion of, "Casablanca," we here the strains of, "La Marseillaise," and NOT "As Time Goes By," which I always thought much more appropriate to the events of the film.   After all, our hearts have just been torn out of our chests by the look on Ilsa Lund's face as she realizes she will never see Rick again, and by the look on Rick's face as he realizes the outcome of his choice is about to be played out in reality.  Ilsa will soon be on that plane and never heard from or seen again. 

And we are devastated. 

So, why, then, did the director, or the producer, or whoever the hell makes those choices, choose the French National Anthem to end the film, and not, the song of the two lovers?  

Perhaps the answer lies in so many answers concerning questions pertaining to that film.   They didn't know what they were doing at the time.    Surely, had they known the finale sooner, had time to ponder the high melodrama of the script's end, they would have realized that, "As Time Goes By," played during the final, "The End," would have left the crowd in bits and pieces of emotional wrecks.  

Yes, that could be the answer.   I could be.   But it's not.  It cannot be.   Why?   Because so much of what is RIGHT with this film was made under the same circumstances, and ALL of those choices were right.    The "collective unconscious," of the crew, the writers, the director, instinctively, I'm convinced, made right decision after right decision.   So, maybe this one was right too?  

After so many years is it possible that I've been wrong all along?   Me?   Wrong?   Those two words just do not go together.  

Now, I have re-thought it.   "La Marseillaise," was the right damned choice, after all.  The film, it's power, it's success lies not in the tragedy of these two lovers.   As Rick rightly points out they don't amount to a hill of beans.   Recall that the song occurs at the pivotal moment of the film (which points to the same answer).   When the crowd "invades" the German's occupation of the piano, and triumphs, we are ecstatic.  At that moment we ARE French, we are an occupied people, yearning to be free, and showing our captors that they will never vanquish us.   It is the song of all oppressed peoples of all times, and we know it, in our  blood, and we rejoice.   

Consider, that in addition to that, all those other fabulous characters, thrown together in a great big mess, -- the Carl, the waiter,  Captain Renault, the French Maitre d', the soldiers, German, French, whoever, Ugarte, the Ferrari, Yvonne, Major Strasser, and the rest, that make this film such a joy.  This was THEIR story, in essence a story about the world, and all it's people, now, stretching back deep into all our pasts, and projecting far into the future of the world.  

And the creators of the film made us love them all.  Admit it.  You love Strasser.    How could you not?   He's so despicably bad and Conrad Veidt is so wonderfully good.

So when we hear La Marseilles at the conclusion of the film, we are uplifted, not made to weep, because the human race, we wish to believe, is full of hope, and willing to fight for justice.   WE, THE PEOPLE, are what "Casablanca," is about, our worst fears, our greatest hopes.   

GreenwichGirl Tops Herself With Reports of The Pampered, Spoiled, and Extremely Stupid!

Just when you thought she could not get more shallow, GreenwichGirl gives us a profound and deeply thought provoking essay concerning the Greenwich spa that now caters to. . . (hold on to your Gucci slippers). . . MEN!   Now, the sluts and whores of Greenwich can ply their wares AND get a facial, alongside their Johns!   Couldn'tYouJustDie?!?  

As GG reports from the front:

 "The infamous and fabulous C------ Salon right on Greenwich Avenue has now expanded their services to cater to our dear gents. . . Using deep tissue creams, shea butter and tension balm Jennifer worked her magic at a firm pressure point that left him refreshed, revived and relieved."   I'll bet GG's mom lent a hand for the "finish," (if the guy's had cash, that is).  

 With the impending collapse of the dollar, the implementation of weaponized drones being deployed in America, the continued dismantling of American industry and commerce,  well, you would think that a smart, well-educated Woman of the 90's like GG and her clan would address some of these issues.   No, you wouldn't.  Just kidding!   You know they're just a bunch of well-groomed chimps, right?    But, after all, someone as to report on the latest news about where a rich boy can get a massage, a manicure, and a . . . never mind.

But, as if this were not enough,  as if GG did not already serve her country well and deserve a good facial, no!   She reports additionally on. . . GG Ribbon!

"GG Ribbon finally arrived! Stay tuned for GG Goody bags, wrapping and

gift set ideas!

xx Greenwich Girl."

And she gave us two kisses, just to make us feel loved!    Oh, couldn't you just ooze!
But what, exactly, is GG Ribbon?    Who knows!   But it's mostly pink and utterly fabulous.  Oh, couldn't just melt?!?  

But that's our GG!    Blonde, courageous, daring, and above all, smart as a whip!  Takes after mom, also blonde, and. . . well, a quite the professional, ahem. . .   But who cares!   They live in Connecticut!    No one dies there!  Unless it's from too much pleasure!   (Just make sure you get paid first, girls!)  

Shea butter!    Hee-hee!

Thank you!  Greenwich Girl!   White Trash Raised to Upper Middle Class Heights!  

God And the Angels, or, It's Not As Easy As You Think

Place: Heaven, during the Creation, but before the creation of humans.

God, seated at large desk, surrounded by a group of chairs in which one is seated an angel.

God: They would be like me, in my image, but they would need to love me. They would need to love the earth, and, in order to prosper, love each other. But that would have to be their choice.

Angel: What do you mean, their choice?

God: They would have the ability to choose death, that is, evil, the curse -- you know what I mean-- or the desire to love and live by love. I will put both before them and in their hearts they must choose one or the other.

Angel: If they choose evil?

God: Then they will die.

Angel: And if they do not love each other, or the earth?

God: Death, again.

Angel: And if they love you? And choose to live by love?

God: Life. Joy unbounded. Freedom from sin and fear of death.

Angel: What am I missing?

God:  Behold. . . the power of the flesh, of greed and of lasciviousness. (God waves his hand and fills the Angel with lustful desires.)

Angel:  Oh, my. Oh, no. This is. . . astonishing. God, you are all-powerful. (he pauses). Give me great things. Give me power that you have! Give it to me!

Another Angel: Cheeseburgers!!! Cheeseburgers loaded with grease and ketchup and onions!! Give it to me NOW!!!

Another Angel (jumping on female angel): Hold still, I must do this! Hold still!!!

God: What did I say?

Angel: What? Never mind, give it to me! God, please. I have been your servant, I deserve a little bit of power! Food! Women! Jewels! Women!!

God: Enough!   (waves his hand)

Angel: Gaaaaaaaaaa! (passes out briefly) What? What? How? Dear Lord, forgive me. I . . . I wanted to kill you if you didn't give me what I wished.

God: I know.

Angel: And this is what you wish to give to humans? They will surely destroy each other and turn from you as quickly as the sun rises. .

God: Or, they will love me forever.

Angel: Lord, God, do not do this.  Do not create these "humans."  The earth is good as it is.  You said so yourself!  What do we need with "humans"?


God: We need them to love us. For the Universe to be complete.  Be gone!

BLACKOUT.

 Scene two: Same, but crowded with angels arguing over the creation of humans.

Angel 1: They may become great. Achieve great things, things of beauty and of love.

Angel 2: They may create beautiful things on the earth: gardens, fountains, fields of flowers! They will bring joy and love to the Universe!

Angel 3: Fools! They will destroy each other and the earth at the same time.

Angel 4: Surely, this will be a disaster! Humans roaming the earth with free will! You may as well start over and create a different Universe!

Angel 5: Nonsense! They will praise God and us, they will sing hymns, and dance, they will create instruments of music and create such beauty as we cannot imagine!

Angel 6: Yes, and destroy themselves at the same time.   And what of the earth? What will they do with the earth?  Will they know its beauty?  Its provision?  

God enters, 

God: It is done. I have created humans.

Angels: Let us pray.  

The Angels form a circle, bow their heads and pray, silently.  

Vapid Taken to a New Level? Greenwich Girl Does It

Yes.

It's called, Greenwich Girl.   It's a blog.  I came across it by accident, and when I say "accident," I mean it, in many ways.   Greenwich Girl must certainly qualify as an accident.   An accident the kind of which the Universe makes and the rest of us have to pay for, suffer for, and ultimately never recover from.   For Greenwich Girl is more than vapid, it is a celebration of the stupid, the vacuous, the empty-headed world of the privileged skank; those dim-witted blonds we love to laugh at and with, (when they get it) and who have set back the cause for women's rights hundreds of years.     But GG does more.   It tears at the very foundation of civilization for its blind celebration of the inane and mindless.

Who could these people be?

Well, I know.   But I'm not telling.

As the wise man once said, "you will know them by their fruit."

Let's look at some of the priceless fruit they grow.   Here is a quote from her fascinating article on the GG beach bag:

"Every GG needs a classic yet strong and steady straw bag for the summer beach days. This amazing one is from Hat Attack (www.hatattack.com) and it is the perfect carry all."   

Couldn't you just DIE?!?

How did we live so long without this knowledge?   To think there is a blog that provides us with this information!    What a time to be alive.

Well, if that wasn't deep enough for you, here's a profound excerpt from her essay on. . . Good Christ, I don't even know what:

"After discovering that the pantry reserve of Starbucks coffee beans was carelessly left empty and even the secret stash tucked behind the GG cookie jar was gone, my suspicion flag was raised high-I was ready to investigate but first I needed a Starbucks zap."

Starbucks and beach bags.

 But speaking of fruit, I would be curious as to what kind of tree would bear the fruit that could create Greenwich Girl?   What tree bore these empty-headed, trend sucking dilettantes with such a grand sense of entitlement yet without a spark of a mind;   to such pampered, simpering, simpletons?

Answer:  I cannot speak her name, but the Bible does warn, "Beware the Harlot, the whore of Babylon."  

Go, Greenwich Girl.   It's your world.   Destroy it.

The First Amendment is Meaningless Without The Second Amendment

So there. 

In its complete form the Constitution has specific and essential amendments to the original, the purpose of which ostensibly, was to refine and perfect the intent of the original.     These amendments are critical both for the creation of the new society they, the Founding Fathers, wished to create but also to the proper functioning and health thereof.   The document is an expression of hope,  a blueprint for the fulfillment of the dream that was born with the Declaration of Independence,  the solidification of the ideals that made the Revolution, they believed, necessary. 

The first of these amendments involves certain freedoms, among them freedom of speech.    The framers of the Constitution must have witnessed the deleterious effects of the lack of free speech in either their own, or other societies for them to have made this their primary amendment.  Freedom of speech was fundamental to the type of society the they wished to create.   Without it, it would be a different society, one in which they did not wish to live. 

The second amendment insures ability for every citizen the right to "bear arms," citing that a "well-formed militia" is crucial for the security of its citizens.   This, is number two on the list of amendments.   A rather prominent place.   

But why would the framers even bother to create this amendment at all?   Why was it necessary?   And what is the purpose of all this bearing of arms, anyway?   Surely, they did not wish to insure that citizens right to shoot a duck, or enjoy a good challenge of target shooting.  Were these freedoms that King George took away?  

 No, the framers were very clear about the purpose of bearing arms: to insure freedom, and the Blessings of Liberty, as they said, "being necessary to the security of a free State."   Not just to insure those freedoms just delineated in the First Amendment but the generic "Freedom," a State that IS free; the creation of that State that the Revolution was all about:  life, liberty, assembly, a free press,  the pursuit of happiness, and the right of free speech, etc. . . all of them.  

This "Freedom" was, after all, the over-riding object and purpose behind the Revolution itself, and behind the creation of a new state.   All that the Declaration of Independence and Constitution concern themselves with is the definition of freedom and the task of the institution and protection of freedom.

The framers knew that tyrants seek to disarm their citizenry in order to best control them. 
History since then has repeatedly proven them right: Pol Pot, Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, etc, all took away their citizens arms before their ability to speak freely.  

Happily, the framer's intent is in no way disputable:

• James Madison: Americans have "the advantage of being armed" -- unlike the citizens of other countries where "the governments are afraid to trust the people with arms."

• Patrick Henry: "The great objective is that every man be armed. . . . Everyone who is able may have a gun."

• George Mason: "To disarm the people [is] the best and most effectual way to enslave them."

• Samuel Adams: "The Constitution shall never be construed . . . to prevent the people of the United States who are peaceable citizens from keeping their own arms."

• Alexander Hamilton: "The best we can hope for concerning the people at large is that they be properly armed."

• Richard Henry Lee: "To preserve liberty, it is essential that the whole body of the people always possess arms, and be taught alike, especially when young, how to use them."
  
  

We see then that the first and second amendments are therefore bound together, inextricably.   They are bound together by a single concept, the preservation of "Freedom."  Again, not just the particular and specific freedoms already mentioned but the generic and all-encompassing concept of a Society that is Free, the Freedom that one seeks as defining a way of life. 

To live in freedom and to enjoy the blessings of liberty.  That is what the Second Amendment seeks to help create, to cause to thrive,  and principally,  to preserve. 

The Founders, the People, could not have made that clearer.  

Mad Men Is One Big Mess -- Death, Prostitution, Dis-loyalty and Blood

Why did we love Mad Men?   At its core Mad Men presented us with adults (don't see much of them anymore) in pressurized and dramatic situations, in a world many have never know but just as many hold in dear memory.   We watched them interact, fight, lie, cheat, and love.   We watched them have fun, too.   We got to know and like them.   We felt we were part of the furniture, what made it work.   And it worked.  Man, did it work.  It unfolded before us like literature, a good novel, or epic film.   While we were surprised at times we were rarely shocked.   But if we were shocked it caused us to learn more about the character and their world.   It was enlightening.

Then, something happened this season.   The writers were sitting in a room one day and said, "Look we have to cause a splash.  I suggest we have Joan prostitute herself for the good of the firm, you know, sleep with some big wig so that they will give SCDP its business."   Then the writers went about the task of creating a plot line that would lead to that goal.    At another meeting a writer stood and said, "Hey let's keep doing that!   I suggest the grisly death of one of the main characters in an especially ugly way, maybe by hanging himself in the offices of SCDP,  while the partners have to cut him down!"   Another writer shouted, "Sounds great!    That'll be sensational."   And so it was,  sensational.  And another plot line was contrived.   That is the key word.  Contrived.

And it was  sensational.  Merely sensational.   That's all.   In fact, these plot lines any sense of reality, of drama or sensibility, and although some may have been pulled in, they were not "moved."

What we have been dished out in the last two weeks of Mad Men, the best show on to hit TV in many years, is a train of contrivances.   It feels phony and substantially artificial.   The drama no longer unfolds slowly, naturally, as if we were given a portal into another world, but shouted out by the writers, "Hey!   Look at what we're doing now!!!   Didn't expect THAT did you?   Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaa!"

Example:  Peggy leaves SCDP.    Why?   Because, as we used to say as kids, she got "yelled at."  Whoa!  Her overbearing boss yelled at her and threw money in her face.   She finds herself in the company of Teddy Chaough, a man whose principles and opinions of other human beings may be a notch below G. B. Shaw's, but nevertheless, we are to assume that Peggy has decided, "Yes.  I'll get more respect, and better treatment at a new firm, with new co-workers who don't know me at all, and working for a boss who's obnoxiousness is legendary!"  Yeah.   Good move.

Nope.  Don't believe it.  Not over money in the face.

Peggy, in seasons past, would have taken Don aside at a later date and read him the riot act, calmly.   He would have listened and been contrite.  Problem over.  And she gets a raise!   At SCDP she has some seniority, the respect of her very influential boss (at least his professional respect) and the admiration of many she works with.   With Teddy, she'll have none of that.  Bad move.  Really bad.  And not in Peggy's nature or character.

Lane.   Tax trouble?    Forgery?   Embezzlement?   Are you serious?   Do I have to explain how illogical all of these acts are for Lane?    Come on.

Don.   Don, without hesitation: you're fired!   Things are never that simple for Don.   They never have been and shouldn't have been now.   When he was ordered to fire Freddy Rumsen, he said, "I don't want to throw him away."   Roger's reaction, "You're loyalty is getting in the way."

That's why we loved Don.  He could be mean, and cheat, yell, but he was loyal.   Don, of the previous 4 seasons would never had blithely said, "I'll expect your resignation," and, "I can't trust you."  Nonsense.  Who CAN you trust in this life?   From old Don's perspective, NO ONE.

That's why I cannot join the celebration of two "fabulous" weeks of Mad Men.   It's not the Mad Men I knew and loved.

And did we really need to see Sally's bloodied undies???   Please.   Really.  I mean, please.

Good Advice Worth Following

Welcome.

I thought about writing to you today with something profound and powerful.   I decided against that.   There's enough of that in the world.   Instead, I will share with you my list of things NOT to do with shaving cream.

(sort of a public service essay).

Do not use shaving cream in food.    It is not edible.  It might make you sick, stupid.   I don't care how good it looks, it's NOT food.   Do not use shaving cream in your eyes, for any reason.   Hard to believe, but I know many of you have done this, foolishly, thinking that it will help keep your eyes clean.   No.   It will only irritate your eyes.

Do not place shaving cream on or especially, inside electrical appliances of any kind.   Where there is electricity there must also be caution.   It is wise to follow all instructions that come with the appliance, and not fool around with adding things, applying stuff or dunking your toaster in a sink full of water while plugged in.  See?  That's just asking for trouble.   Well, it's the same for shaving cream; it doesn't belong there so don't do it.

Now, you may have friends.    I don't know.   If you do, you're lucky.   I have no friends, hence this blog.   Friends do not enjoy having shaving cream rubbed in their face or on their pants.  It can only serve to place a rift in the friendship, and that's something you definitely do not wish to do.   Friends are valuable.  And I know, because I have none, so you, like I once did, probably take your friends for granted.   Don't.    Your friends define you.  They help you survive the enigmas, mysteries, and injustices of life.    Without friends, you will end up like me, alone bitter, and writing blogs.   That's who writes blogs you know.   People with no friends.   Do you think if I had friends, I'd be sitting here writing this?  No, I'd be out having brunch with them!  

True friendship has a simple glory about it.   It has to be cared for, kept, and it's often hard work.  A good friendship is a lifeline to a man drowning in the ocean of life.   It is a buffer against the storm.   It is among the greatest gifts that God can give a person, or that a person can give themselves.  

 Listen to me, I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.  Listen.  Can you hear, beyond the wind and the rustling of leaves. . .?  In the darkness, late at night, when all the world's asleep, you can hear the loan moan of a lonely abandoned soul.   Pity me, ye lucky one who still has friends.

Pity and learn from me,  and don't put shaving cream on your friends.